


Orison

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an oldie, from tumblr. Fallen!cas, sex in a church, some blasphemy (of a sort). bottom!cas. ♥</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orison

Dean knows he goes there to pray.

The Roman Catholic Church in the centre of town is built like a citadel; all soaring towers and sand-brown brickwork, buttresses and gargoyles placed on its corners like watchers, their grey, pupil-less eyes staring down. The spire winds from within its great belly, a curlicue, graceful even in its age.

He pushes his way through the great doors in silence, his palm flattening against the old wood, their wrought-iron hinges and handles pitted and pockmarked with hammer-marks; old craftsmanship. He stands at the back of the church, breathing its warm, heady smell; incense and candle-smoke, the cool scent of stone.

He doesn’t call Castiel’s name, but knows he is there; he’s the only one here, ever; sat kneeling in the front pew, his hands clasped together, head bowed. Dean thumbs the round, touch-worn edges of the pews as he walks down, and then he stops.

Castiel prays in silence, motionless. Not even breath seems to come from him; his shoulders are a line, immovable, settled as snow. His soft shirt – white – sits crisp on his back, uncreased. He dresses for the occasion, like Sunday-goers; but Castiel won’t go to Church on a Sunday; can’t bear it. He comes on Thursdays, early in the morning, and perhaps he thinks Dean doesn’t know; he crawls out of bed and puts his shoes on and leaves Dean wondering after him, sleepy in the weekday sunlight.

Dean’s followed him before; trodden down the wide, slate-grey sidewalk after him, followed his strange, hesitant steps. He’s watched Castiel, ex-angel, duck into church like a sinner; pick up a bible from one of the pews, and bow his head as he reads, though he knows it all already.

It’s a sad, sorry thing, this tradition; the overwhelming throb and hum of the church, its stained-glass, waxy light, isn’t enough to negate the image of Castiel, pale, begging forgiveness in a pew, every fucking Thursday, week-in, week out.

Castiel knows he’s there before he reaches him. It’s not an extension of Grace; not some lingering angelic power; Castiel just always knows he’s there, and now he draws his head up softly from his hands, and turns to Dean with weary eyes. “Dean.” He says, quietly, and the sound echoes above their heads, repeating a hundred times over.

“Hey.” He steps closer until he reaches the row behind him, then takes the final steps with caution; he touches Castiel’s hunched shoulder, at a loss for anything else to do.

“You followed me.” Castiel says, voice still hushed, and Dean just sighs.

“Why don’t you go to Sunday Mass?” he asks, and Castiel turns back to the head of the church, where the crucifix hangs. Dean can feel the movement of his lungs against his hand.

“It doesn’t seem right.”

Dean presses his thumb against his shoulder-blade; rubs a circle there, comforting, like he will when they’re curled in bed together. He half-expects Castiel to flinch away. “You don’t have to keep saying sorry, Cas.”

Castiel is silent. He moves, brushing Dean’s hand from his shoulder, and pushes himself up, out of his seat. He looks at Dean. “I was finished, anyway.” His voice is faraway, and desolate, and Dean nods. He offers his hand; Castiel takes it, though tentatively. He steps out from the pew, and his fingers tighten around Dean’s hand. “I never thought I’d feel unwelcome here.” He says, not really to Dean, and Dean’s heart clenches for him; for how thin and lost he sounds, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, his words coming back to him from all angles.

On the walls the saints are standing; are painted, on the glass; pale, wiry feet jutting out from long robes, lambs scattered around them, looking plaintively out. They hold shepherd’s crooks; they stand in crowds, or alone, perfect circles of yellow light around their temples, their eyes dark and solemn. Somehow all their gazes land on Castiel, and as he looks at them, Dean does, too; takes in their glowing edges, the black, interlocking, endless outlines of the folds in their clothes.

“You ready to go home?” he says quietly – and Castiel takes hold of his shoulder and pulls them together, crushes his mouth against Dean’s.

It’s a blur – Castiel’s grip is  _bruising,_ hands clenched over his skin,and into his mouth he says, “Not yet.” He pulls Dean back across the church, pulls and then smooths his skin with his palms, tugs and then soothes, reassuring, sure. He walks, steers them backwards; trips over one of the steps leading up to the altar and sits down but takes Dean with him; pulls him to splay over him, sat on the top step with his legs wide open, Dean between them, hands touching his face, running over his back, tugging at his hair. “Do this. For me.” He says quietly, disconnecting his mouth from Dean’s, and Dean looks at him.

He chances a glance up at the wide arch of the stained glass behind Castiel; at its muzzy shape, its dreamlike sheen, and then turns back to Castiel’s wide, blue eyes. “Okay.” He mutters again, and dips to kiss him. 

Castiel’s hands are ragged and wanting; they pull and tug at him, go straight for his jeans, fumbling the zipper down hastily; they pull him out of his boxers and Castiel licks his palm before returning to Dean’s cock in an instant, stroking quick and desperate. Dean doesn’t know where to put his hands – can’t brace them on the altar, wary of how the wood will feel under his skin, thick and oil-like, tacky. He puts his hands on Castiel instead; touches his spine, runs them underneath his shirt. Castiel unbuttons his own pants and pulls them down to his ankles, kicks them off, breaking from Dean to push them away with his heels, then pulling him fiercely back to kiss him. “Here.” He says, looking at him, measured and calm, but for the way his breath is hot, blooming, between Dean’s parted lips. “Fuck me, here.” He says, and hooks his legs around the backs of Dean’s, pushing him forward. Dean’s half-hard, hanging out of his pants, and he looks at Cas just to make absolutely  _certain_ this is what he wants.

“Are you-“

“Dean.” He fumbles a kiss, slurs it against Dean’s jaw, close to his ear. Says, “Please.”, and lies back, and pulls him down.

Dean, above him, can’t help but wonder  _why_ this is what he wants; and why he wants it so  _much._ Why his hands trace every inch of Dean, why he’s so  _quiet,_ wary of the echo, when Dean rucks his shirt up around his hips, thumbs at his nipples, presses their bare crotches together. Castiel pushes him onward – hips insistent, he rolls against him, legs locked against Dean’s sides, urging him on, urging him  _in –_ he tilts his head back and stifles a gasp, an encouraging noise, when Dean’s spit-slicked finger slides and catches between his legs. Pushes in. “Okay?” Dean mutters against his stomach, and Castiel nods, and grips his hair in his hand, and rocks onto his finger, hair rasping against the carpet.

“Okay. Okay.  _More.”_ He murmurs blindly, pulling Dean’s hair – Dean works at him for longer, pushes two fingers in slowly, bending to lap at where his fingers are drawing in and out, wet as he can possibly make it, careful as he can possibly  _be,_ with Castiel’s impatient, urgent voice grunting above him, from below the altar. One of Castiel’s hand clenches in his hair when he works in a third finger, a gentling hand on his stomach, pressing kisses to his hips in apology because this is so  _rough,_ so  _fast,_ so  _dangerous –_ and yet Castiel wants nothing less, is thrusting against his fingers, using the vicelike grip of his legs around Dean’s middle to push him harder, harder, onto Dean’s hand. “Dean,  _now.”_ He says eventually, and whines when Dean withdraws his wet fingers, a string of spit coming with them, and leans over him; fits his clean hand to the side of Castiel’s face.

“Cas, tell me you’re okay.” He murmurs against Castiel’s jaw, dick pressing between his legs, catching on his hole and slipping past, as his hips twitch restlessly beneath him.

“I swear.” Castiel says, pulling back to look into his eyes. He lifts his hand and brushes it slowly through the hair at Dean’s temples. He breathes shallowly. “I love you.” He murmurs, and Dean half-laughs; kisses his neck.

“You too.” He murmurs, and reaches down, and guides himself in.

It’s almost too tight; too much a press of heat to sink inside him, too strange and raw against the floor of the church, Castiel’s cut-off breaths, his own, ricocheting off the walls and the ceilings, colliding with each other in the air. He presses in, and they’re face to face, Dean moving inside him, pants still mostly on, Castiel’s bare legs gripping him tight, hands stroking over his shoulders, down his back. Dean holds onto his hips, pulls him onto his cock, earns himself a pressured, plaintive noise from Castiel. He can smell incense, rust-tinged, thick as blood; can feel the  _weight_ of this place pressing down on him, and somehow it’s  _amazing;_ it doesn’t feel like blasphemy, and now he doubts Castiel intended it to.

This isn’t Castiel taking his revenge, isn’t him turning his back – it’s Castiel taking one love and placing it within another, his oldest; Castiel fitting them together in the church, the history of the place pressed as close to Dean as Castiel is, himself.

He draws in and out of him slowly, rocking their hips together; Castiel keeps one hand fisted in Dean’s shirt, against his chest, and moves the other between them to stroke his own cock, to move back and forth between his own fist and the way Dean is fucking him, slowly. Then he sits up on his elbows and Dean stills to look at him, still inside.

Castiel sits up, Dean pulling out of him, and then pushes him, manoeuvres him, so Dean is kneeling and Castiel is astride him, rising up to push Dean’s cock back inside, pressing their foreheads together – finding Dean’s hands, at his waist, and pulling them up and around to lace their fingers, hands firmly palm-to-palm.

“Do you know-“ he gasps against Dean’s face, eyes fluttering shut when he starts to move, “I never knew how it would feel. Any of this.”

Dean can’t find words – is lost in the movement of Castiel’s body, the way it feels to be inside him, Castiel’s cock pressed flush between their stomachs.

“Love,” Castiel mutters softly, and kisses him, “Religion.” And he laughs, and groans on the crest of drawing up, of pushing down again.

Dean clutches at him – hooks his arm around his back, pulls him closer, pulls him down, over and over; squeezes his hands. It’s strange with this audience; with Christ tilted, hanging from the cross above them; with the saints lined on the walls like figurines. Only Madonna, carved into the font, has her eyes averted down, her hands curved around the swell of her belly.

“Cas.” And Castiel clenches around him, pushing up and down on his cock, riding him faster. His breath is wet against Dean’s face and his palms sweat, slip against Dean’s.

His hands tighten, hard, when he comes untouched against Dean’s belly, and what pulls Dean over the edge is Castiel’s sharp cry, echoing around them, fills the church from floor to rafters like the bells are ringing, like announcing something, like a calling to prayer.

 Castiel rocks on his lap, kissing his face over and over; first his left cheek, then his right, then his forehead, their hands slackening, joints of their fingers bruised, knuckles locked against each other.  He murmurs, “Thank you.” Against the side of Dean’s face, and his voice is tight and full. He pulls off Dean’s softening cock and sits on him, then, still holding his hands, looking intently at Dean’s face.

“It’s nice here.” Dean says, tilting his head up to the ceiling, breathing the smell of the place, of wood, of worship - of their sweat and come, mingled in.

Castiel sighs, and lets go of his hands, letting Dean’s drop to his waist. He takes Dean’s face between his palms. “It’s changed for me, now.” He says, softly. “I’m not what I was.” But his tone, while melancholy, is resigned. Content. “But you’re right.” He finishes, and punctuates the sentence with a kiss. “It’s beautiful.”

Dressed, they leave the church together in silence, shoulders pressed together.

It’s seven-thirty on a Thursday; but for two lighted candles, they leave nothing of themselves behind.


End file.
